


Make You Mine

by protostar (variablestar)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Background ships of course, M/M, Pining, Soft™, This kind of goes with Knot in My Heart, because i'm weak and we all know I can't help myself, something like KyouHaba and KawaMiya and KuroKen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variablestar/pseuds/protostar
Summary: Osamu has dimples that show when he laughs.Semi might be a little smitten.Osamu starts visiting the flower shop Semi works at.  Semi pines.





	Make You Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frankenstein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenstein/gifts).



            The first time he comes in, it’s when Semi’s got dirt streaked across his cheek, snorting awful laughter at Atsumu struggling to get out of Kyoutani’s headlock. It’s late, and it’s been a slow day, and they’ve been fucking around for the last several hours, since Kenma left. It’s that weird limbo between New Year’s and Valentine’s, where business slows down for a couple weeks, and most days just kind of _drag_ , only broken up by frustrating games of Uno where Terushima _has_ to be cheating, and visits by Yahaba that leave Kyoutani stuttering and Kenma and Semi laughing.

 

            They’re not really expecting any business.

 

            So it kind of catches all three of them off guard when the door opens, paired with the chiming of the bell above it. Atsumu stills and Kyoutani’s grip slackens, and Semi turns from his seat on top of the counter to see who’s coming in. If anything, it’d be Ukai dropping in to check on things, or Terushima on his way home from class coming by to give them updates on the _beautiful_ boy in his engineering course.

 

            This is not either of those things. This is—

 

            Semi recognizes the face. Kind of. He’s seen it enough, twisted into an obnoxious, lilted smirk, or turning red with peals of laughter. But this isn’t anyone he knows. Just someone who looks stupidly familiar.

 

            He didn’t know Atsumu had a twin.

 

            He knows Atsumu has a brother, as well as a little sister. He talks about them both enough, complaining about the former and going soft and endearing about the latter. But he never mentioned that the brother was a _twin_ , an _identical_ twin at that. He exchanges a look with Kyoutani, because, honestly, _what the fuck?_

 

            Atsumu’s mouth twists into the type of grin Semi hates on him, and he starts to stand, but Kyoutani tightens his hold, keeping him in place. Atsumu looks up at him, as best he can when Kyoutani’s holding him like that, and pouts.

 

            “ _Kyouken_.”

 

            “I’m still waiting for an apology.”

 

            Atsumu groans. “I’m sorry for eating your cake. If it’s any consolation, it was shit anyway.”

 

            Semi brings a hand to cover his face with a sigh. How stupid can he get?

 

            “Ow! Ow, okay, I’m sorry! From the bottom of my heart— I am _sorry_ , Kyouke— _Fuck!_ Kyoutani!”

 

            Semi peeks through the gaps of his fingers to watch Kyoutani set Atsumu free. He jolts at the faint huff of laughter from behind him, and looks back over his shoulder. Atsumu’s brother has half a smirk on his face, one that doesn’t resemble Atsumu’s twisted one in the slightest.

 

            “Not funny, ‘Samu,” Atsumu pouts. “What do you want? We’re very busy, you know?” He swings his arm out to gesture at Semi, who’s been doodling on his empty coffee cup for the last half hour, and Kyoutani, who’s pulled himself up onto the stool, legs swinging as he inspects the cup.

 

            ‘Samu — short for . . . for . . . _fuck_ , he knows Atsumu’s mentioned his name before. Brought it up while pouting about _whatever_ , because when he talks about his brother, he’s always complaining. And Semi has a lot of respect for anyone who causes Atsumu _that_ much trouble.

 

            Atsumu’s brother snorts at the blatantly obvious fact that they are very much _not_ busy. “Sure. You forgot your dinner, dumbass.” He drops a paper grocery bag onto the counter, between Semi and the register. “You’re lucky I had to be over here, or you’d have nothing.”

 

            “That’s not my fault!” Atsumu protests. “I was rushing—“

 

            “You left late because you were too busy trying to find a good sweater to wear for Kawanishi. And it is your fault that you forgot it, because I reminded you three times to take it before you left.”

 

            “Osamu!”

 

            Semi looks at Kyoutani. _Grins_.

 

            It’s like the one, single time Semi and Kenma have gotten to talk to Suna. It’s almost poetic. It’s definitely beautiful. Sure, the rest of them at the flower shop can get under Atsumu’s skin, get him pouting and dejected, but never as quickly as Suna, and _definitely_ never as quickly as _Osamu_.

 

            Semi turns fully on the counter, drops his legs so they’re on the other side, and Kyoutani leans into the space beside him. He listens to Atsumu whine, watches Osamu roll his eyes. Doesn’t bother to hide how much _joy_ this is brining him, especially after how irritating Atsumu’s been for the past hour or so. Ever since he ate Kyoutani’s cake.

 

            “Whatever!” Atsumu eventually says. “Whatever, I’m taking my dinner break. You’re an asshole.”

 

            “Takes one to know one,” Osamu deadpans.

 

            “Oh, real mature!”

 

            The door to the back room slams shut behind him.

 

            Osamu’s gaze flickers over to Kyoutani and Semi — specifically Semi. A small, amused smile curls the corners of his mouth.

 

            Semi is very . . . _very_ aware of the dirt staining his cheek.

 

            “Sorry that he’s an asshole,” Osamu says. He reaches out towards one of the small cacti they keep next to the register, Uni. The number of times Atsumu has pricked himself on it is stupid. Semi thought that, at some point, he’d learn. Evidently not. But Osamu is careful, fingers just grazing the pot that Semi spent an empty morning painting with little fish.

 

            “He fucked off in less than a minute,” Kyoutani says, voice tinted with amusement. “How’d you do that?”

 

            “Lots of experience,” Osamu says. “Key is to use Kawanishi against him.”

 

            The more Semi thinks about that, the more it makes sense. Kenma’s been doing that for _weeks_. He’s always been the best at figuring out everyone’s weak spots, though, the bastard.

 

            Osamu glances at the door to the back, then refocuses on Semi and Kyoutani. “I’m going to go, before he notices I took the mochi.” He offers a wave over his shoulder as he passes towards the door.

 

            Semi hopes to every god that might exist that he comes back.

 

* * *

 

 

            He’s not really expecting it. At least, not so soon. And not when Atsumu isn’t working. But Semi’s playing on Kenma’s DS while Kenma reads off terrible pickup lines to Kyoutani from his phone, and Kyoutani keeps hissing at him to _stop_ because Yahaba is right across the store—

 

            —and Osamu comes in, right as Kenma starts _really_ laughing, the sound filling the small store. Semi grins at Kyoutani’s miserable face, where he is on the floor, hiding behind the counter. As if Yahaba won’t know he’s there.

 

            Semi pauses the game on the DS when he realizes Osamu’s coming in and sets it to the side, taking care to keep it away from the edge of the counter. He doesn’t need to pull a Yamamoto and accidentally break the thing. Kenma’s wrath is . . . something Semi never wants to face for himself.

 

            “Uh, Atsumu’s not here—“ Semi starts, just as Kenma murmurs to Kyoutani, “Is that a snake in your pants or—“

 

            Semi coughs, kicking the stool right next to Kenma’s head, and he snickers in response. Kyoutani’s face couldn’t possibly get any redder.

 

            “I know,” Osamu says, stopping at the counter. “That’s _why_ I’m here.” He folds his arms on the countertop, resting close to Semi’s knee, and he _probably_ shouldn’t be sitting on the counter, especially when they have customers, but when have any of them ever been professional about anything? And it’s not like Ukai’s set a great example, and he’s the damn owner. Besides, it’s more comfortable than the shitty stool. Semi’s got no idea how Kenma spends most of his time at the shop sitting there.

 

            “Oh,” Semi says. “Can I help you, then?”

 

            He doesn’t miss the fact that Kenma’s locked his phone, is watching him from where he has his head in Kyoutani’s lap. Perceptive shit.

 

            “Mm. I was thinking . . . about a cactus,” Osamu says, looking to Uni. “A little one.”

 

            “Sure,” Semi says. “There’s some along the wall over there you can look at. I could help you pick one out if you needed.”

 

            Osamu nods. “I don’t really know what to look for.”

 

            Semi hops off the counter and leads Osamu over to the small shelf lined with cacti. It’s the one shelf Kenma refuses to clean or restock, after getting stabbed by the other, nameless cactus by the register. (This is the reason it _is_ nameless — Kenma refused for it to have one, after it hurt him. He wanted to get rid of it entirely. Terushima wouldn’t let him.)

 

            Semi shows him the different cacti, all different shapes. One with a cheerful yellow flower on top, which Kyoutani is especially partial to. “This one’s a little fucked up,” he says, pointing to one on the edge. “We don’t need to discuss why. Just that I don’t deal with caring for the cacti anymore.”

 

            Osamu looks at Semi, a hint of a smile edging onto his face. “I’ll go with that one.”

 

            Kenma’s returned to pestering Kyoutani, listing off names of flowers that mean _secret love_ and _admiration_. Semi snorts as he suggests cactus flower and Kyoutani smacks him. Kenma only laughs.

 

            Semi tries to silently gesture to him that Yahaba’s coming over.

 

            He settles behind the register, an old, temperamental thing that _no one_ actually knows how to work, including Ukai. They’ve all been pushing to get a new one. Instead, they’re stuck with this piece of actual garbage that simultaneously has too many and too few buttons.

 

            Kenma disappears into the back room and leaves Kyoutani alone to deal with Yahaba, who’s holding a potted orchid.

 

            Osamu holds the pot containing the small, lopsided cactus between his hands, absentmindedly spinning it in slow, lazy circles on the countertop. One hand reaches towards Uni, fingers brushing over the painted fish on the pot.

 

            “Did you paint this?” he asks. He lifts his eyes to meet Semi’s. “Sorry, just, the cup, and the DS— I kind of figured.”

 

            Which, of course. Anything that isn’t a flat, solid color in this shop was decorated by Semi. The sign, the painted front on the counter, the back of the register. Hell, Kenma even let him doodle gems and swords on the back of his DS with permanent marker. He redoes the chalkboard they keep outside on the sidewalk every morning, advertising different flowers and new deals with different drawings along the edges.

 

            He nods. “I’ve painted . . . almost everything in this shop.”

 

            The wall in the break room doesn’t count. _That_ was mostly Terushima and Nishinoya. Semi just cleaned it up around the edges.

 

            It’s still kind of a mess. But an endearing mess.

 

            “What would it take,” Osamu asks, “for you to paint a pot for this one?”

 

            He is, decidedly, nothing like Atsumu. His voice is quiet, tone even. He isn’t loud or rude, at least not that Semi can tell. He’s _mild_ , he’s _nice_ , he has a line of freckles dotting the side of his neck.

 

            “I’d say . . . 2,200 yen,” Semi says. “I can have it done in a couple of days. Depending on what you want on it.”

 

            Osamu nods. “Space,” he says. “Something . . . with space.”

 

            “I can do that.”

 

            While he pays, Osamu asks when Semi’s working again, so he can come pick it up, and Semi gives him his schedule.

 

            He definitely does not think about the fact that he’s kind of looking forward to Thursday.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Roses are bullshit,” Kenma declares, cutting off another length of ribbon.

 

            “Unoriginal,” Kyoutani agrees, nodding.

 

            “Could go with gardenias. Red camellias. Fritallaries,” Semi says.

 

            “Fritallaries also mean curse,” Kenma points out.

 

            “And red camellias could mean perishing. And you always advocate for those.”

 

            “Perishing with _grace_ ,” Kenma argues, as if that does anything to mend it.

 

            They’ve been putting together arrangements for a wedding all day, and it’s _stupid_. They’re all bored with it. They’re all _sick_ of fucking _roses._ So they’re pretty. But they’re also ridiculously cliché, and people could stand to be a little more original.

 

            At least Semi’s gotten out of it for the last couple hours, trying to finish Osamu’s pot. He intended to spend the full morning on it, but then they ended up stuck with this stupid order, and he hasn’t quite had the time he thought he would to work on it. At least he managed to get it started yesterday, and if he’s lucky, Osamu won’t come in for another couple hours, when it’s dried.

 

            “Bet you’d give Yahaba roses,” Kenma murmurs.

 

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Kyoutani snaps back.

 

            “You’re basic,” Semi tells him.

 

            Kyoutani shoves at his legs, nearly pushing him right off the rickety stool. Second choice, of course, as a result of Kenma and Kyoutani taking over the counter with their finished arrangements.

 

            Semi looks up when the door opens and the bell chimes. Osamu’s hair is speckled with puffy white snowflakes, slowly starting to melt in the warmth of the shop. He has his nose tucked in an oversized scarf, and his cheeks are frozen red.

 

            He’s suddenly so grateful he hasn’t had to go outside since he got to the shop.

 

            “Hey, Osamu,” Semi says. “Uh, your pot’s— it’s almost done. We got this stupid order, and I couldn’t get to it— Are you okay?”

 

            Osamu is grimacing as he pulls his scarf down so it isn’t blocking his face. He definitely doesn’t look _pleased_.

 

            “Fine,” he says. “Have a lot of snow everywhere. In my shoe. Gloves.”

 

            And Semi gets it. He _gets_ it, because sometimes Atsumu is a little shit (okay, really, he _always_ is, but sometimes it’s on a spectacular level) and dumps snow down Kenma’s collar, fills Semi’s hat with it. There’s also all the instances of having to walk through stupidly large drifts of snow trying to get to the bus stop in the morning, and so Semi _knows_.

 

            “Wait here,” Semi tells him, and ducks into the back room. He fills a mug with hot water and throws it in the microwave, searches for the box of hot chocolate powder that Atsumu thinks he’s done such a good job of hiding. It’s a shitty off-brand, but it has little marshmallows in it, and it’s not expired this time, so he figures this will be fine. At the very least, it’ll warm Osamu up just a little.

 

            He hopes he’s not picky about making it with milk only. Because they kind of don’t keep any in the flower shop after the time Terushima accidentally left it out on the counter, cap off, and the whole shop reeked of spoiled milk by the time anyone realized. So water is kind of Osamu’s only option here.

 

            Semi tosses a couple extra marshmallows on the top, also taken from Atsumu’s stash, and brings the mug out to Osamu, sliding it across the counter towards him.

 

            “You can have this,” he tells him. “I’ve still got a couple things to add to the pot anyway, so if you wanted to sit and wait—“

 

            Osamu nods, and pulls the steaming mug into his hands. It has to be hot, bordering on burning, but Osamu doesn’t seem fazed. Just grateful for the heat.

 

            “I hate winter,” Osamu mutters, slowly lifting the mug to his mouth.

 

            “It’s awful,” Semi agrees, nodding. There are sweaters and mounds of fluffy blankets and hot drinks, and Semi loves all of those things. But he hates the snow and the icy roads and the unbreakable cold that seeps into his bones every time he steps outside. He prefers fall, where he can have all of his favorite things without being _miserable_. “Completely useless. The only pros to it are warm sweaters, but the _everything else_ doesn’t really make that worth it.”

 

            “Fall is better,” Osamu agrees. “Cold, but it’s bearable. And there’s no snow.”

 

            He faintly registers Kenma snorting a laugh at his feet. But most of his focus is on the fact that _smitten_ is too strong of a word for what he’s feeling, but there’s definitely _something_. For sure. Because Semi is biting back a grin as he adds rings to the planet on the side of Osamu’s pot, and Osamu is sitting there sipping the shitty cocoa with half-lidded eyes and a single quirked corner of his mouth, and there’s like five freckles right there on his neck that Atsumu _definitely_ doesn’t have, just like Atsumu’s smile isn’t soft and neither is his voice.

 

            “Is that the pot?” Osamu asks after a moment, as if what Semi’s painting could possibly belong to anyone else.

 

            Semi nods. “I hope this is alright. I spent . . . a lot of time looking at a friend’s astronomy books the other night. Trying to get the stars and arrangements right.” He hadn’t told Oikawa anything about _why_ he was in his apartment until nearly two o’clock in the morning. Just that he needed to borrow his books. (Of course, this also meant joining him in watching half a season of an overly dramatic crime show. Not that Semi minded. He’s passed a lot of time with Oikawa in the same way.)

 

            “It’s beautiful,” Osamu tells him. And his voice is so gentle and kind of breathy and definitely _warm_ , and Semi feels himself smiling as he thanks him. “Are you an art student?” Osamu asks, gaze flickering between the register, the pot, the paint-and-dirt-stained sweatshirt Semi’s wearing.

 

            And Semi tells him that yes, he’s an art student, and names the university as being the same one Kenma attends, and Osamu asks him about his courses, and Semi tells him about the tiny studio space on the third floor of the art building that he’s kind of claimed as his own. It’s _nice_ and relaxing and it’s been a while since anyone _asked_ about these things. Because his friends kind of just expect him to talk about it at this point, unprompted, because Semi always does, really. And so it’s different. Osamu has dimples that show when he laughs.

 

            “What about you?” Semi asks as he sets the pot aside to dry. “Atsumu doesn’t really say anything about you other than the things that annoy him.”

 

            “Of course he doesn’t,” Osamu scoffs. “My major’s writing and publishing. Planning to use it to go into publishing, but maybe writing. Short stories or something.”

 

            He tells Semi, after being prompted, about some of his favorite classes (there’s a creative writing course that he loves especially), his favorite pieces of writing (this collection of poetry that he claims is some of the most beautiful work he’s ever read). He gets this little crooked smile on his face when he talks about the arts center at his school, which is where he spends most of his time, because sometimes he can play the piano in the lobby, and the rest of the time he can write in the rafters above the stage, because he has a friend in the theater department with keys. They’re probably stolen, Osamu muses belatedly, but he also says that he doesn’t care much, when he gets _that_ kind of work space.

 

            Semi might be a little smitten.

 

            “So what’re all the roses for?” Osamu asks.

 

            “Wedding arrangements,” Semi says. “We’ve been working on them all day. I’m . . . so fucking _sick_ of roses.”

 

            And Osamu laughs, light and airy like the light filtering in through the windows, and he’s kind of really pretty.

 

            He leaves an hour later, when the pot is dry. Semi sends him along with a travel mug of hot cocoa, hoping for two things:

 

            One, that Terushima won’t miss that mug.

 

            Two, that Osamu comes back soon.

 

* * *

 

            There’s a part of him that’s expecting it and a part that isn’t. On one hand, Osamu has no reason to come back. He got his cactus and his pot, and that ought to be that. But on the other hand . . . Oikawa sometimes tells Semi that, he figures, if you want something badly enough, that means the universe _has_ to make it happen. And it’s not like Semi _really_ wants to see Osamu again. It’s just that he kind of really _does_.

 

            Which is stupid.

 

            Because he barely knows him.

 

            But also not so stupid because Osamu has a pretty laugh and a pretty face and he maybe possibly breaks into the theater at his university just so he can sit on the catwalk and write, and he asked Semi to paint a pot for his cactus. He has _dimples_.

 

            So there’s a part of Semi that’s surprised to see Osamu a little over a week later, early on a Saturday morning. And there’s another part of him that really, really _isn’t_.

 

            (There’s also the part of him that knows Osamu _has_ come back sometime in the in between, because Terushima’s mug is back on the shelf, cleaner than he’s seen it in months. But there’s also the fact that that could’ve been a one-time occurrence, that he was just dropping the mug off and nothing else.)

 

            (That little piece of rationality is overpowered by the part of Semi that _hopes_.)

 

            He’s in the middle of drawing a cat on Terushima’s arm when he comes in. Kenma’s somewhere in the back, enjoying the peace he has for himself for the time being. Until Nishinoya comes in with deliveries.

 

            Osamu has his hands shoved as deep as they’ll go in his pockets, his face buried in the same scarf. Semi draws a crooked whisker.

 

            There’s a stool on the other side of the counter, shittier than the one Terushima’s sitting on, and Semi still isn’t sure how or when it got there. He’s pretty sure it was broken, and he _definitely_ doesn’t know when it got _fixed_. Regardless, Osamu slips onto it, tugs the scarf down from his mouth, and breathes a heavy sigh.

 

            “I hate winter,” he mutters.

 

            “I can have Teru get you something warm to drink,” Semi says.

 

            Terushima doesn’t need much more prompting than that. Osamu doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a single gesture before he’s bounding off to the back room, humming as he goes.

 

            Osamu lifts his head, meets Semi’s eyes with heavy-lidded ones, and asks, “What do I have to do for a cat?”

 

            Semi can feel the smile working to pull at his lips. “Tell me about your favorite song.”

 

            And so Osamu does. While he talks, low and tired and soft, he loosens his scarf, pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his jacket pocket. Terushima brings him hot chocolate, and retreats into the back room. Semi suspects he and Kenma are watching from just past the doorway.

 

            Osamu’s voice is steady. It’s steady and warm and the change in pitch when he gets excited about something isn’t as noticeable as it is when he’s talking to someone like Yamamoto or Terushima. Atsumu. The red fades from his cheeks as the warmth of the shop edges out the cold in his bones, and his favorite song is this sweet, subtle thing that he could probably play on the piano in his sleep, and there’s this sort of affection laced through his tone when he talks about it. Six freckles. There are exactly six freckles dotting the side of his neck.

 

            He asks Semi about his favorite song. Semi tells Osamu to take off his coat or roll up the sleeve or something if he wants a cat, and Osamu says to make it a fox as he hangs his jacket on the back of the stool.

 

            There’s a pair of freckles on his forearm where he rolls up the sleeve of his sweater. Semi finally answers his question as he touches the pen to his skin.

 

            “Why a fox?” Semi asks as he draws a curled tail.

 

            “Like ‘em,” Osamu says. “I like cats, too. But foxes are my favorite.”

 

            And there’s silence, for a few minutes. Semi’s not the most talkative person as it is, and besides, the quiet is comfortable. Osamu watches him draw the fox, adding small details that it probably doesn’t need but he adds anyway, because it means it’ll take just a little longer.

 

            Eventually, Osamu breaks through the silence. Asks if it’s been busy lately. And it has, because Valentine’s was yesterday, and that’s always one of the busiest days of the year, and thereby one of the worst. But it’s also about to calm down for a _while_ , because of course. There’s no special holidays coming up. There will be anniversaries and weddings, banquets and replacement arrangements for the office building down the street. But it’ll be quiet. It’ll be nice.

 

            Semi caps his pen once he decides he has nothing else to add to the drawing, and looks up at Osamu. “Was there something you needed help with today?”

 

            “Mm. There was. Something for Atsumu,” he says. “I’ve forgotten what that is, though.”

 

            He stays a while longer. Sometimes talking. Sometimes just watching Semi doodle on the Nameless Cactus’s pot. By the time he leaves, he still hasn’t remembered what he originally came in for. He tells Semi he’ll see him later as he heads out.

 

            Like a promise.

 

* * *

 

 

            He comes back. Every few days. Sometimes it’s a couple of weeks between visits, and that’s always explained with exams and his own part-time job and, once, the flu. But he drops in. Five minutes some days. Two hours, others. A few times, he buys little things — a small candle, a _Get Well Soon!_ card and a single magnolia — but mostly, he comes in with no reason for the visit. Once, he asks if Atsumu happens to know the meaning behind orange lilies, and brings one home for him.

 

            Semi doesn’t ask about that one. Just grins at the mere idea of it.

 

            The thing is, Osamu is like a study in subtlety. He’s quiet, soft, steady. Warm. He makes a face at the coffee Semi’s drinking one morning, full of sugar and syrups. He isn’t loud in anything he does. Even his laugh is low and sweet, and his smiles are always gentle and crooked. He has those fucking dimples that, as the weeks go on, Semi finds himself wanting to kiss every time they pop up. It’s kind of stupid, but so is Semi, really, because here he is with a dumb _crush_ that even Kenma’s caught onto and won’t stop giving him shit for.

 

            There are days Osamu comes in and they don’t do much talking at all. Osamu just sits, watches Semi put together different arrangements or draw on his empty coffee cup. Sometimes he asks about flower meanings. Sometimes he lets Semi draw on his arms.

 

            The freckles are kind of in the same formation as the Cassiopeia constellation.

 

            Semi kind of wants to kiss those, too.

 

            There’s one afternoon that he sits with his head in Kenma’s lap and a spool of ribbon in his hands as he talks about how Osamu accidentally swung his hand right into Uni the other day, and instead of getting mad, he mostly just _pouted_ and it was so stupidly fucking _cute_ and who the fuck did he think he _was_ and he pouted for ten fucking minutes and it isn’t _fair_.

 

            There’s another afternoon where he catches Kenma and Kyoutani making a bet on how long it’ll take for Semi to ask Osamu out.

 

            He has bastards for friends. But, at the very least, they talk about it like it’s a definite thing, like it’s something that _will_ happen, not _if_ it _might_.

 

* * *

 

            Osamu comes in at the very end of Semi’s shift on an afternoon that’s somewhere in the limbo between winter and spring, where things are starting to get kind of green but it’s still fucking _cold_ outside. He’s bundled up in his coat and scarf, but there are no gloves on his hands when he pulls them out of his pockets.

 

            “Oh, ‘Samu, hey,” Semi says as he undoes his apron. “I was just leaving, actually.”

 

            Osamu nods, and his nose is red with the cold, and Semi is kind of dreading going outside. But Ukai doesn’t pay for him to stay late, and Atsumu’s coming in soon, anyway. So the cold triumphs over the idea of staying here for _that_.

 

            Atsumu’s been even more obnoxious since he learned Semi has a crush on his brother. (Something that he _will_ get Kenma back for, he swears on his fucking _life_.) All teasing comments and stupidly lilted smirks as if he’s forgetting that he’s been pining after Kawanishi for even longer than Semi’s been crushing on Osamu, and he has _absolutely_ no room to talk here.

 

            “Cold?” Semi asks, because he can’t stop himself. If he’s leaving, Semi might not really get the chance to talk to him, and he’s going to take advantage of what he has now.

 

            “Freezing,” Osamu tells him. “Could go for a warm drink. Do you . . . want to come?”

 

            And Semi isn’t expecting _that_ at _all_.

 

            He’s also definitely _not_ about to turn that offer down.

 

            He tells Osamu he’ll be out in just a minute, and goes to get his own jacket and scarf from the back. Kenma’s there, sitting in the middle of the floor, trying to tie a bouquet of sunflowers and roses together.

 

            “Do I have dirt on my face?” Semi asks.

 

            Kenma gives a knowing smirk and tells him that no, he doesn’t, and before Semi leaves, adds that he’d better be going with Osamu because he is _not_ about to lose this bet to Kyoutani, and he’s only got two days left to win.

 

            Semi calls him a bastard.

 

            Kenma tells him to shut up, reminds Semi that he loves him.

 

            Even if he’s right, that doesn’t mean he’ll admit it after _that_ comment.

 

            “There’s this place down the block that Atsumu’s been bitching about,” Osamu says as they walk out. “Something about all of you going there and lowering his opportunities to talk to Kawanishi.”

 

            “Not there,” Semi tells him. “Kenma’s boyfriend works there, and he’s just as much of a snoop as Kenma.” And that’s probably the wrong thing to say, because that implies there’s something to snoop _on_ , but the words are already out, and Kenma and Kyoutani talk about Semi and Osamu like they’re a definite thing. A _when_ , not an _if_.

 

            “Then I know a place,” Osamu promises, and Semi doesn’t have to look to know he has the small, off-centered smile on his face.

 

            He thinks there’s something intentional about the way their hands keep brushing.

 

            Osamu leads him a few blocks over, to this little place that’s cluttered with little decorations and none of the couches match and neither do the chairs, and some of the lightbulbs are bare, and there’s paintings of all different styles hanging on the walls. It’s a mess of color without coordination, and Semi thinks he might be in love.

 

            He tries to tell Osamu he doesn’t have to pay for his hot chocolate, but Osamu ignores every word of it, and then they’re tucked into a bright red couch in the back, right next to a totally crammed bookshelf, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

            And maybe it is.

 

            “How was that project, for your color theory class?” Osamu asks. His shoulder is pressed against Semi’s, warm and comfortable and _smitten_ probably isn’t a strong enough word for what Semi’s feeling.

 

            “I spent half the night before it was due throwing the rest of it together, and Shirabu’s pissed that I got an A on it,” Semi says. “He can’t figure out how I’ve been pulling that off for so long.”

 

            And Osamu smiles, and the dimples are there, and the hand that’s holding his drink is the one furthest from Semi, which leaves the one right next to him free where it’s tapping out an even rhythm on his thigh.

 

            “How’ve you been getting into the theater now that Aran’s had his keys confiscated?” Semi asks.

 

            Osamu breathes a laugh and tells him, and as he talks, Semi decides that it’s a _when_ , and the _when_ could be a _now_ , and if he really, really wants something, the universe has to make it happen. So while Osamu’s explaining something about lock picks and a back entrance to the prop room, Semi slips his hand into Osamu’s. His heart is caught in his throat, but Osamu’s words only trail out for a second before he’s continuing, folding his fingers into the spaces between Semi’s.

 

            It’s three hours later when Osamu’s walking Semi to the bus stop. It’s late and the sun has dipped below the horizon, and Semi’s fingers are still laced with Osamu’s.

 

            The street is empty and the air is quiet, and Osamu has the hint of a smile gracing his lips.

 

            “You know, this was better than the flower shop,” Osamu tells him. There’s a street lamp flickering a few feet behind them. “Not that I don’t like the shop. But it’s kind of nice not having your friends eavesdropping all night.”

 

            And Semi has to laugh, because his heart is light in his chest and Osamu has _fucking_ dimples and he’s not wrong, that it’s nice to have— to get to do— _this_.

 

            “They’re prying bastards,” Semi says. “They’re— I mean, they’re amazing, but _fuck_. Don’t give any privacy.”

 

            “Plenty now, though.”

 

            Osamu’s voice is soft, but now it’s like a whisper, and his hand is light on Semi’s cheek, and Semi thinks _thank fucking god those assholes aren’t around_ and then it’s just _thank fucking god_ as he curls a hand in Osamu’s scarf and pulls him in.


End file.
